


Anthony J. Crowley, Private Investigator

by Itneveroccurredtomeatall



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Private Investigator, fake private investigator, private investigator Crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22078489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itneveroccurredtomeatall/pseuds/Itneveroccurredtomeatall
Summary: Crowley is a private investigator. He's built up a decent reputation and has been known to charge people for two weeks worth of pay for a job that has only taken him a day and a half. All of his cases are easy. Lots of adultery. A little bit of finding the father to an unborn child. A little bit of general tailing and observing. But, one day, a bookseller named Aziraphale needs Crowley's help and, for once, Crowley wants to help. Unfortunately, Crowley's in over his head.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

Anthony J. Crowley was not exactly proud of his job. Usually, it wasn’t particularly stimulating. The vast majority of his cases involved cheating spouses, so it was really a matter of being available at all hours to follow someone about their day for a couple of days and taking a well-timed photograph from a distance. It was the dirty, rather tedious work that no one else wanted to do. But he made enough to keep his flat without having to really work all that much. And it was technically legal so he couldn’t complain too much. But there were days when he hated it. This was one of those days.

He nodded and pretended he was listening to the American man across from him ramble on about how he was certain his son was involved in some kind of underground drug ring. Crowley was pretty sure the poor kid was seeing someone.

“And he’s never home on Friday nights. Sometimes he doesn’t come back until after midnight or until Saturday morning! One weekend, he didn’t come home at all,” Thaddeus Dowling complained. “And when he is home, he won’t talk to his mother or I! It’s not that I care, really. It’s my wife. It upsets her, you see? And, you know what they say: unhappy wife, unhappy life…” 

“Ah… I see,” Crowley said, pretending to be deep in thought.

“So, you think you can do it?” he demanded.

“It’ll be… uh… difficult, but I can do it,” Crowley assured him. “I imagine it will take,” he paused, “three weeks,” he decided on. Three weeks would mean being paid for one and a half weeks of work immediately which would cover his upcoming rent and it wasn’t an unreasonable time frame. The man would be unlikely to question it. And Crowley was certain he could figure it out in less than three days, giving him over two weeks to find his next client. 

“Three weeks… alright.” 

“I’ll need fifty percent of the total amount upfront and you’ll have to cover any other charges as they come up.” 

“Other charges?”

“You know… clothes for going undercover, money to get into a nightclub if he goes to one, that sort of thing.” 

The man nodded. “Naturally. How much should I write the check for?” He whipped out his checkbook and a pen and looked at Crowley expectantly. 

“Three thousand pounds,” Crowley decided on. He hadn’t spent so long building up his reputation for nothing. “I’ll charge you if anything else comes up once the job is done.”

The man didn’t hesitate to write a check before sliding it across the desk to Crowley.

“I’ll start right away,” Crowley assured him as he pocketed the check. 

“Excellent. Thank you for your help.” 

* * *

Crowley woke up the next day to his cell phone ringing. 

He groaned, rolled over, and answered the phone.

“Hello?” he said roughly. 

“Hey, listen, Crowley. I sent this bookseller your way,” Hastur said. 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. His name’s Azir-ray-fell Fell? I think. Probably mispronouncing that. But he’s loaded, seems gullible, and is probably too nice to punch you if you ever run into each other later.” 

“Ta for that.” If there was anything Crowley loved it was rich fools. He  _ almost _ wasn’t mad at Hastur for waking him up before 9. 

“Told him to meet you in St. James’s Park at noon today.” 

Crowley groaned. “‘Course you did.”

“He’s blond and dresses like it’s still 1846. You’ll recognize him. Couldn’t possibly miss him. Even with those ridiculous glasses you wear. Your name’s Anthony. I’m Mr. Lavista.” 

Crowley snorted. “Alright, then.” 

“See you Wednesday,” Hastur said.

“See you Wednesday,” Crowley repeated before hanging up, setting his alarm for 11, and rolling back over to go back to sleep. 

* * *

He woke up for the second time that day at 11 to the sound of his alarm blaring and cursed Hastur (and himself for not cursing Hastur out earlier). Nothing was worth having to wake up twice in the same day. But, he decided, he was already up so he might as well meet his potential new client. 

He quickly got dressed and grabbed a poptart before dashing downstairs to grab some coffee from the shop below his apartment. 

“You’re up early, Mr. Crowley,” Wensleydale said when he saw the man walk in. 

Crowley shrugged. “I’ve got to work sometime.” 

Wensleydale nodded. “How’s work?” He busied himself with making Crowley’s coffee. 

“Fine.” Crowley didn’t mind the kid. He’d even say he was a little fond of him. But he was not in any mood to make small talk today. After all, it was only 11. Most days, he didn’t leave his apartment until 1.

Mercifully, Wensleydale finished preparing Crowley’s coffee before the silence became unbearably awkward. 

“Here you go, Mr. Crowley,” Wensleydale said as he passed the steaming cup over the counter. 

“Thanks,” Crowley said as he passed a bill to Wensleydale. “Keep the change.” 

Crowley checked his phone and grimaced. He was going to be late. And being late was bad for his reputation, which was bad for business and bad for his tastefully furnished, incredibly expensive flat. 

He quickly crossed the street to the Bentley and drove off quite a bit over the speed limit as he clutched his coffee and took an occasional sip once he deemed it a drinkable temperature. 

After several minutes of reckless driving, honking cars, and cursing people (and, thankfully, no spilled coffee), Crowley arrived at St. James’s Park. And he was only two minutes late. He quickly got out of his car and figured he could explain the time away as time he’d spent trying to find this… Fell. Or not, he realized as he caught sight of the man. There was simply no way to miss him. In addition to wearing incredibly outdated clothes, the man was - and Crowley had never been particularly shallow - gorgeous. Not traditionally, mind you. He’d be more likely to be an actor in a sofa advertisement than a model on the runway, but there was still something stunning about him. 

Crowley didn’t believe in love at first sight. But even he would agree that this was pretty damn close. 

“Mr. Fell?” Crowley asked as he drew closer. 

The man’s eyes met Crowley’s as he smiled. “Yes, that’s me,” he said. He seemed delighted just to have someone talking to him. Crowley imagined Mr. Fell was the kind of man who was delighted by everything from food to champagne to cheesy magic tricks. “You must be Anthony. Mr. Lavista has told me so much about you.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow update! Life has been crazy recently. 
> 
> I hope that you're all doing okay! <3

“Ngk...” This was quite awkward. “Well... he’s not told me much about you,” Crowley admitted.  _ Other than that you’re rich and gullible _ , Crowley thought _. He certainly didn’t tell me you were beautiful. _

“Not a problem, my dear boy,” Mr. Fell said. “Let’s sit and I’ll tell you about myself.”

Crowley nodded and followed Mr. Fell to a nearby bench. 

“My name’s Aziraphale Fell,” Mr. Fell said as he took a seat and Crowley followed suit. Ah, so not Azir-ray-fell after all. Not that Aziraphale was any less strange…. 

“I own an antique bookshop in Soho. And I-well, I’m afraid I wasn’t completely honest with your associate, Mr. Lavista,” Mr. Fell admitted sheepishly.

“Oh?” Crowley raised an eyebrow.

Mr. Fell was already more interesting than anyone Crowley had ever met. What kind of man wore that amount of tartan while managing, if Crowley was quite honest, to be the most beautiful man in the world,  _ and _ lied to an associate of a private investigator in order to get a meeting with said private investigator?

Mr. Fell blushed and nodded. “I have two requests; the first is what I spoke with your associate about, but the other is... of a more private matter. I imagined that the less people who know about it, the better. Discretion is important, because, well, you see, the situation is… delicate.”

“Why don’t you tell me about both of your requests and I’ll see what I can do.”

Internally, Crowley had already decided that he’d accept both requests and wouldn’t stop until he completed whatever Mr. Fell needed. After all, just because he had his  _ scheme, _ didn’t mean he couldn’t actually work hard and solve more complicated cases if he needed to. How hard could it be?

* * *

Quite hard, Crowley realized before he had even left the bench. 

Mr. Fell had explained his two requests: one) hunt down a rare book that he had lost track of once a man borrowing it had died (it had likely been sold at the estate sale by the man’s son and had sentimental (and not to mention monetary) value), two) find out if his boss, Gabriel, was embezzling from the company and/or working for the mafia. 

And then he had smiled at Crowley, wished him a good day, and strolled off into the park.

Crowley’d had his run-ins with the mafia. Well, to be more accurate, he’d been part of the mafia. But that was years ago and it hadn’t ended well for him. He’d been tossed out on his arse and told he was lucky the boss wasn’t killing him. (Crowley would later find out that the boss thought he was annoying with all his questions, but ultimately harmless and it would be more trouble to kill Crowley and dispose of the body than it was worth. He still wasn’t sure of whether he should be grateful or insulted that the boss thought so little of him.) 

Both requests were far more difficult than anything Crowley’d had to do before. Tailing spouses or kids was easy. He had known locations to start with. If he waited outside Thaddeus Dowling’s son’s school, the boy would eventually come out and Crowley could tail him. Same with cheating spouses. They had to go home at some point. But tracking down a book that could have changed hands several times by this point would be challenging. The book could have been left wherever the dead man had left it (at home, on a desk, at the office, or on a park bench) or the son could have taken it. If the son had taken it, he could have misplaced it during the stress of arranging his father’s funeral or given it to a funeral guest who was more interested in it or sold it at the estate sale. If the book was sold at an estate sale, it could be with anyone now and they could have also left it somewhere (at home, on a desk, at the office, or on a park bench) and Crowley was very,  _ very _ screwed. Unless they used a credit card to purchase the book or the estate sale manager had an excellent memory, but God was rarely ever on Crowley’s side. 

The second request was, for obvious reasons, more dangerous than anything Crowley had done before. And it didn’t help that he’d had that awful falling out. He doubted a wig and fake mustache would get him very far in this situation. 

But Crowley couldn’t bear to let down that angel of a man and he had someone who owed him a favor and was a quick phone call away…. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update has been slow! Thanks for being patient! <3

“Anathema, I need your help.” 

The younger woman stared at Crowley across the tiny table, an unimpressed expression on her face. 

Crowley had called her after realizing he was in over his head and requested to meet with her in-person. He figured it was harder to turn someone down if you had to stare at them while you did it. It was even harder to turn someone down if you had to stare at them while you did it and they were paying for your lunch. 

“With your fashion sense?” she asked. 

“‘Course not,” Crowley said, choosing to ignore the jab at his clothes. Skinny black jeans were eternally stylish.

“Then be more specific,” she admonished. 

“I’ll try,” Crowley replied through gritted teeth, determined not to say anything that might make her less likely to help him. 

At that moment, a waitress approached their table. 

“Good afternoon,” she said as she placed a menu down on the table in front of each of them. “My name’s Bethan. Can I get you something to drink? Or would you like some time with the menus?” 

“A whisky,” Crowley ordered. 

Anathema shot him a dubious look. “It’s one in the afternoon,” she said. 

Crowley shrugged. “And?” 

She just sighed and shook her head. She turned back to the waitress. “Water is fine, thanks.” 

Bethan nodded politely and left. 

“So?” Anathema prompted. 

“I have taken on a new case,” Crowley said carefully, “and I’m not quite sure how to proceed.”

“Oh?” Anathema arched a careful eyebrow at him. “Something’s finally stumped the world’s modern-day Sherlock Holmes?” 

“I  _ never _ claimed to be the world’s modern-day Sherlock Holmes,” Crowley protested. “That was just something some idiot wrote in their review of my services and the press took it and ran with it! Though, I have to admit, business has definitely gone up since that article came out.” 

Bethan approached their table. She set a class of water down in front of Anathema and a whisky in front of Crowley. 

“Are you ready to order or would you like some more time with the menus?” 

“A few more minutes, please,” Anathema said politely as she flashed a pearly smile at Bethan. 

“Certainly.” Bethan turned to tend to a nearby table. 

“Alright, tell me about this case.” 

So Crowley told her about Hastur’s call, meeting Aziraphale Fell in the park, and finding out that he’d have to get involved with the mafia again. 

Throughout his explanation, Anathema had reached for his whisky a few times and taken a few swigs. Apparently, she needed alcohol to put up with him. 

“Why’d you agree to this?” Anathema asked once he’d finished and she’d finished half of his whisky. “I mean, you’re, no offense, not really a detective, Crowley. You’re more of a stalker who gets paid.”

Crowley shrugged and took a swig of whisky, refusing to meet her eyes. 

“Oh! You like Aziraphale!”

Crowley drained the glass and set it down on the table. “I don’t,” he insisted, but it didn’t even sound convincing to himself. 

“You do,” Anathema said, “but, because I’m a good friend, I won’t make you admit it before I help you. Have you considered….?”

And together they began to formulate a plan. 


End file.
